The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself. Fresh air won't hurt you."
The first frosts of autumn had arrived before Laughing Bill returned to town with the announcement that he had struck a prospect. Doctor Thomas was at first incredulous, then amazed; finally, when the true significance of those tiny yellow grains came home to him, his enthusiasm burst all bounds. He was for at once closing his office and joining actively in his partner's work, but Bill would not hear to such a thing.
"Stick to the pills and powders, Doc," he counseled. "You know that game and I know this. It's my strike and I don't want no amachoors butting in. I got options on the whole creek—she's eclipsed for fair—'cause I don't like neighbors. You shut your trap till spring and sit tight, then we'll roll our packs, stomp on the fire, and call the dog. Old Home Week for us."
"But, Billy, we can't work out that claim in one winter," protested the physician.
"How d'you know we can't? Mebbe it's just a pocket."
"We'll find other pockets. We have the whole creek—"
"Say, how much d'you need to satisfy you?" Bill inquired, curiously.
"I—don't know. A hundred thousand dollars, perhaps."
"A hundred thousand! Whew! You got rich tastes! This ain't no bonanza."
"But if it's any good at all it will net us that much, probably more."